


Þetta Reddast

by lumassen



Series: Nordic Nations [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Nationverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:22:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27662632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumassen/pseuds/lumassen
Summary: Of all the Nordics Nations, Iceland is the most comfortable with the thought of what and who he is. He loves his people, and has found the balance between living amongst the humans. But he's not perfect, and the feeling of being different from the others comes as a constant reminder.---------Part of my Nordic Nations series exploring the feelings and hardships that come with being an immortal country personification.
Relationships: Denmark & Iceland (Hetalia)
Series: Nordic Nations [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1898602
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	Þetta Reddast

Usually, he felt it coming.

First to go was his temper. The smallest, witty remark from Norway was enough to put him in a bad mood all day, or Finland absentmindedly clicking the end of his pen over and over and over in a meeting would drive him insane until eventually he nudged him under the table and hissed for him to stop.

Then it was loss of appetite. Nausea could be brought on by anything remotely potent. Even the smell of Sweden’s signature fish pie, that usually he would devour in seconds, would send his stomach in knots. 

He wouldn’t always realise that the signs were there until someone pointed out that he was more highly strung than usual, or question why he hadn’t helped himself to the buffet at the summit meeting. But once they did, he knew the signs and signals of his own body and mind well enough to know what was next, and would give himself time to prepare. 

August 29th, 2014, and a European relations meeting was in session.

“ _Islanti_ …. _your face_.” Finland had whispered from beside him halfway through the meeting, keeping his voice low so as to not draw the attention of the rest of the room. 

At first, Iceland was confused as to why Finland was looking at him wide eyed, expression full of concern, but then as he wiped the end of his nose that had began to run a little on his suit jacket sleeve and saw that it was now smeared with crimson, he excused himself as quickly and politely as he could. 

Once out in the corridor and away from the stuffy meeting room, Iceland was suddenly aware of the fact that he was burning up. A clammy, cold sweat glistened across his skin as he loosened his tie and pulled his phone out from his pocket. Sure enough, when he looked at the screen, his fears were confirmed.

That had been 4 months ago. 

Bárðarbunga was currently the longest ongoing eruption since at least the 19th century. The constant, slow eruption at Holuhraun had scientists perplexed, tourists amazed, but left Iceland terrified of his own existence as he watched over the weeks as his hair faded to the colour of dark ash, his complexion greyed, and his eyes turned black and dull. 

It had never been this bad before. 

The only thing that was comparable was four years ago when Fimmvörðuháls ceased erupting after 3 weeks, only to be followed by Eyjafjallajokull the very next day. But even still, although the effect on his climate, his people, his economy had been harsh, it was all over within a month. This time, it was different, and with every day that passed Iceland grew weaker. 

At the sound of the soft rapping of knuckles on the other side of the door, Iceland stood still in the middle of his room and drew in a breath, clamping his hand over his mouth. 

“Ymirsson? Can I get you anything?”

His attendant's voice was muffled by the solid wood as she spoke. 

The back of his throat burned, his lungs ached, and unwanted tears sprang to the corners of his eyes as he swallowed thickly. Knowing that she’d be awaiting a response, Iceland lowered his hands away from his mouth,

“I’m fine!” he blurted out quickly, irritated by how his voice rasped and his lungs wheezed at even the slightest attempt to speak. His breaths were starting to become ragged again, but his attendant was still standing outside the door, and Iceland refused to let her hear him. He held his breath for as long as he could until the dull sound of her heels across the floorboards in the hall had disappeared. 

Only then did he exhale, his long, shuddered breath followed by a fit of coughing. Once he started it was hard to stop, and each cough that shook his body felt like a pair of hands squeezing tighter and tighter around his throat. 

Stumbling across the room to the bathroom, Iceland dropped to his knees in front of the toilet and wretched into the bowl. His knees were bruised black and blue from finding himself pressed against the cold tiles just like this so many times over the weeks that had gone by. But no matter how weak he felt, he had a duty. _He was the land of fire and ice, for Odins sake._ His people had not long since recovered from an economic crisis, and the tourism that had dwindled in the aftermath of Eyjafjallajokull had only just started to pick up again. 

Wiping his mouth messily on the back of his arm, Iceland slammed the toilet lid down and caught his breath for a moment, his shallow breathing echoing around the bathroom. 

Then, gripping the back of the toilet, Iceland hauled himself up from the floor and leant against the sink. The mirror on the wall above it was still covered by the sheet of cloth that he’d thrown over it the day the eruption started, and a thin layer of dust had settled across the back of the basin. By now the housemaid's knew not to remove the cloth, and now, 4 months into the eruption, many of them didn’t so much as set foot into Iceland’s bedroom anymore.

Unlike the majority of the rest of the Nations, Iceland was close to his human government, and resided permanently in Alþingishús, the stately building that was also home also to the Icelandic national parliament. Ever since he was a child and was first discovered, he’d been by the side of his people and been raised by his human leaders.

To them, he was the son of Ymir, a gift to mankind from the Norse creator of the world. He was a being with so many similarities to them yet one undeniable difference - immortality. Iceland knew it was strange, he knew _he_ was strange, but he loved his people. They were his family, and with no better explanation as to what he was or why he existed, he clung to it.

Inhaling deeply, Iceland closed his eyes and stood tall, pulling his shoulders back and tilting his head back so his chin pointed toward the ceiling. It was his people that gave him the strength to keep going. As a Nation, they were all he really had to live for. 

Scraping his hair back and out of his face with his hand, Iceland left the bathroom and unhooked his suit from where it was hanging up on his wardrobe door and began to get dressed, discarding his night clothes in a heap by the dresser. He managed to get himself into his shirt and trousers, but these days even bending down to put on his socks left him breathless, and such a simple task was now strenuous. Sinking down onto the bed, Iceland dropped his head into his hands and couldn’t help but laugh cynically. Throughout his life he’d been envious of the older Nations, he wanted to be like them. All this time he thought it was because they were wiser, stronger, more experienced, but the more he thought about it Iceland realised that it wasn’t any of those traits or qualities that he wanted specifically, he just didn’t want to be himself. 

_Sickly, economically unstable, geographically isolated, Iceland_. 

Another knock at the door dragged Iceland from his thoughts.

“Emil, ya in there?” 

There was only one person who referred to him as Emil. A silly human-style name, derived from a play on the name Ymirsson, given to him by the one Nation who longed to be just like the humans more than anyone else. 

“Of course I am.” he called through the door, then cleared his throat as his voice came out raspy. 

A silence followed, and Iceland just sat staring at the spot on carpet in front of the door that had worn down over the years, a result of so many people coming to visit him. Most were humans of importance, governors, Kings, Queens, even the occasional celebrity. But the person who’d stood in that doorway more times than Iceland could ever count, was Denmark.

Hauling himself up from the bed, Iceland crossed the room and turned the key in the lock. The metal quickly became warm from his touch as he held it between his fingers while he hesitated.

“It’s okay, Ice.” 

Denmark's voice came through the door again, his tone calm, his words annoyingly reassuring as Iceland took hold of the handle and flung it open. He was met with the all too familiar face, and no matter how much Denmark tried to hide his surprise at seeing him like this, no doubt with sunken eyes, a red, blotchy face and gaunt expression, Iceland still caught the way that his jaw clenched and his eyes quickly became wider as he gave him a once over. 

"Yer not dressed yet?" was all Denmark said, pulling at the ends of his waistcoat to neaten it as he followed Iceland into the room, stooping a little beneath the low door frame. 

"There's still an hour... before we need to be at the reception, Dan. You're the one... who's early." 

Sinking back down onto the bed again, Iceland caught his breath, eyeing Denmark as he wandered around the room, his hands stuffed casually in the pockets of his suit trousers. 

“I know. I just thought… y’know-” Denmark started, then paused as if he’d lost his train of thought. He stopped pacing the room to stand by the window and cast his gaze out across to the harbour that was visible over the rooftops for a moment. Then he shook his head and turned back to face Iceland, a wobbly smile on his face.

“We haven’t seen ya for a while.” he shrugged, “I jus’ thought it’d be nice to catch up a little before we have to be all formal, that’s all.” 

Narrowing his eyes, Iceland leant down to pick up his discarded socks from the floor but didn’t break eye contact with Denmark as he did so, and watched as his bottom lip began to tremble. He’d always been a bad liar. 

When Iceland didn’t say anything, Denmark began to ramble,

“They’re making a movie about my _Kronprinsesse_ Mary, did I tell you? I’m a little worried, you know what the press can be like, right? I told Sverige, but he thinks I’m being silly. I probably am, right? I just think that people forget that she’s a person too, underneath everything.” 

Denmark had stopped pacing again, and this time stood staring at the bathroom mirror covered by the cloth.

"Sure, she has responsibilities, but she has feelings, she's human after all. She could get hurt. When people are hurting, ya need to make sure that you're there for 'em." 

It wasn't until Denmark turned to face him once more, his eyes glassy and expression pained, did Iceland realise that he hadn't really been talking about the Crown Princess. 

"Ice, why didn't ya _say anything_?" 

Denmark's tone was almost pleading as he gingerly took a seat beside Iceland on the bed. He looked weary, with deep creases in his brow and dark circles under his eyes. 

"Did Noregur send you here to baby me? To lecture me? Dan, _I'm fine_ -" Iceland was cut short by a tightness rising in his chest, and he felt Denmark flinch on the bed as another coughing fit tore from his throat. Screwing his eyes shut, Iceland willed himself to stop, but couldn't even when he felt a cool, damp towel drape across his shoulders. 

His eyes were streaming and stinging by the time the heaving in his chest had slowed, and with a trembling hand he took the glass of water that Denmark held out toward him. Quickly it became warm within his grasp, the heat radiating from within him enough to cause condensation around the glass. Iceland only took a few sips before he slammed it down onto his bedside table beside yet another untouched meal that his attendant insisted on bringing to him every evening. 

"Of course Nor didn't send me! I care about you too, Ice!" Denmark cried, seemingly hurt by Iceland's assumption, "I'm not here to lecture you, or baby you, I'm just here if you need me. Okay?"

Denmark's eyes searched Iceland's until eventually Iceland sighed, leaning back against the pillows and collapsing into a slump. 

"I'm frightened, Dan. Frightened at the thought that this is who I am. This is what becomes of me," 

To demonstrate his point, Iceland took hold of the glass of water again and wrapped his fingers tightly around it until the water began to bubble. Then he let it slip away so that his arm was hanging limply off the bed. 

"I'm meant to be strong, I'm supposed to be this... immortal being, _the son of the creator_ they call me, and I can't even look at myself in the mirror... or put my own damn socks on and I-"

"Iceland. Remind me what your national motto is?"

Raising his voice a little to talk over Iceland, Denmark's question stopped him short. He hesitated for a moment, his chest rising and falling heavily, lungs burning, and swallowed the lump in his throat.

"It's... Þetta reddast." he said eventually, his voice not much more than a whisper.

"And, remind me again what that means?"

Denmark rose from the bed and picked up Iceland's hair brush from the dresser.

"Things always have a way of working out in the end." 

Iceland spoke slowly, as though with each word that left his lips he realised that he'd been in this place many times, enough times for his national motto to reflect that it was never forever.

With a silent, proud nod of acknowledgment, Denmark pulled out the chair at the desk in the corner of the room and motioned for Iceland to come and sit. 

Now with tearful eyes of his own, Iceland sat up from the bed and sat down heavily in the wooden chair. He leaned his head back and let it rest against Denmark's chest for a moment as he ran the brush through his hair that he hadn't combed for days and listened as he hummed the tune that he always had done as long as Iceland could remember. He brushed and brushed until all of the tangles were gone, then knelt down beside the chair and slipped Iceland's feet into his socks, then his shoes, and tied the laces just as he'd done when Iceland was a child. 

Not a word was spoken until Denmark helped Iceland into his suit jacket and neatened his pocket square then placed both of his hands on his shoulders and regarded him, that same faraway expression returning to his face. 

"Þetta reddast." he repeated Iceland's motto, the words rolling off his tongue as he looked Iceland straight in the eye, and for the first time in 4 months, Iceland couldn't help but smile.

**Author's Note:**

> I had 13 tabs open about Icelandic parliament while I wrote this for some reason only to mention it for one sentence. Also Ymir and Emil sound similar when pronounced in Icelandic so I've had the HC that the reason Ice uses it for his human name if he has to is because the humans see him as like the child of Ymir, who was this giant who got chopped down to create the world idk lol. Icelandic mythology is cool, man. Sorry for slipping my lore into this fic! 
> 
> I know this fic is a little more jumbled than my other two Nordic Nations fics, but my writing is a lil' rusty at the minute so I apologise :')
> 
> I hope you liked it anyway <3
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> -lumassen


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